a poem for Mike

My Husband Burns the Yard Waste After His Father Dies

The Fire Marshall came, looked, shook his head, nope.

Seventy-five feet from any structure. Not possible in this yard.

Then he turned on a half-wink, sniffed the breeze, said,

Nice spot for a little camp fire.

All morning my husband stands with it, the burning.

He stares, like one does, into the fire

until the winds shift in his direction

and his eyes begin to water.

Safe Passage, Ray. July 28, 1931 - April 28, 2012